


Outlander-Inspired Poetry

by BetweenScenes



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 08:49:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13854258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenScenes/pseuds/BetweenScenes
Summary: Gotham Ruaidh organized a writers workshop with weekly themes.  I wanted to gather the poems I create in one place.





	1. Which Door?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was simply the question "Which Door?"

**Which Door?**

It had become familiar  
After two years and several months  
And the ritual pleased him  
To see the sign, to walk up the stairs  
To open the door with the cheerful jingle  
To step inside, doff his hat and cloak,  
Check the appointment book  
And to lose himself in small details  
Small sensations, small typeface  
The smell of ink, the sticky swirl of black  
The sound of the press,  
A real profession, which, of course,  
Masked the real source of income.

But after years of living in fear  
Living in a cell, living a lost man,  
He was grateful to find pleasure  
In creation again.  
And he didn’t miss her  
Except all the time.

 

It had become familiar  
After two years and several months  
And the ritual pleased him  
To see the smoke, to walk onto the porch  
To open the rough-hewn door with the irritating squeal  
To step inside, doff his hat and boots  
Wipe off the mud  
And to lose himself in small details  
Small sensations, small miracles  
The smell of herbs,  
the cloying smell of molding bread  
the sound of singing,  
A meager home, which, of course,  
Masked the miracle of his life.

But after years of living alone,  
Living bereft, living a lost man  
He was grateful to find comfort  
And joy again  
But he always missed her  
Until she was in his arms.


	2. You Can't Dwell On It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord John Grey imagined

_You can’t dwell on it_  
That’s what Hal had said  
When they found him  
Tied to a tree  
Cradling a broken arm  
Soaked in his own piss

Not dwell on it?  
Not dwell on the muscular highlander  
The way he rucked his kilt up  
To relieve himself  
This man in a skirt  
More man than  
Countless breech-clad officers.

Not dwell on it?  
Not dwell on the way  
He felt aroused and afraid  
When he was discovered  
Held at knife point  
Tortured and threatened  
Not dwell on how  
He pitied and envied  
The dark-haired woman  
Clasped by savage arms

 _You can’t dwell on it,_  
Hal said again  
When he shared of the capture  
And the honor-bound release  
_He was near death_  
He will not make it home alive  
You need not think of him again.

 _You can’t dwell on it_  
John would tell himself  
When he woke again and again  
From dreams of red curls and kilts  
When the only desire to rouse him  
Was the unnatural kind

 _You can’t dwell on it_  
Hal chided once more  
When they left his heart to die.  
_You must overcome these urges  
This is not a holy love_.

A mind does not obey

When told what it cannot do  
And desire and admiration  
Bound him from youth  
To the one truest love of his life  
The one who harmed him  
Freed him  
Claimed all his dreams  
Earned his friendship  
Fathered his son  
Owned his heart

 

 

 


	3. Exulansis

_According to the[Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com%2Fpost%2F96261999250%2Fexulansis&t=MDIzOWU0ZTJlMGY5ZjcxNjRiODMyZDdhOGU4MjY1OGM3Mjc4ZTExZixkUGc4TlJuUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AD4g0V6eDPQOnNH0JBcjUww&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F170265252120%2Fgothams-writing-workshop-prompt-2&m=0):_

_n._ _the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether throuugh envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land._ _  
_

 

He had stopped referring to her by name.  

She was “a woman I used to know”

or “a healer”

or “my wife.”  

It hurt too much to explain.  

Because a name couldn’t summarize all that she was,

Couldn’t show the way her wild hair framed her face,

How her lip and chin quivered when she was sad,

The way she gasped and moaned and cried out

When he made love to her.  

Her name couldn’t heal the sick,

Bandage up the wounded, or salve his soul.  

Her name wouldn’t wrinkle its forehead,

Puzzling out the next step in their journey,

Couldn’t jut out its chin

Or narrow its eyes in stubbornness,

Couldn’t say, ‘Think again,’

Or devastate him with a look.

He couldn’t explain her,

So he didn’t even mention her,

Except to those who had known and loved her as well.  

He mentioned her to a friend whose eyes flared in jealousy.

He spoke of her to his son.  

He rarely said her name.

 

When she appeared in front of him,

It had been too long.

Forming the sounds felt unnatural.  

The word came out slowly.

He stared in her eyes,

Wishing her hair was wild around her face.  

He felt her hand against his chest.  

He could hardly believe she was real.  

But saying her name again made it so.

 _Claire_.


End file.
